It was April 17, 1989, near the end of the twenty-six
and one-half mile Boston Marathon; my body
had “hit the wall.” But somehow, the combination of cheers
from the million and a half plus crowd and the atmosphere of energy that
knifed the air made my spirits soar with the glitter of holiday balloons,
buoying me over the agony. Usually about two miles from the finish, muscles
and mind refuse to cooperate and many athletes simply keel over.

But I was flying! I had fulfilled the unreachable, had experienced the
impossible dream.

For a brief flash I thought of the “carbo party” held the
previous evening at the Black Falcon Terminal, overlooking shimmering
lights on the Bay. Munching on tasty dishes of rice and spaghetti, in
awe of mingling with professional and Olympic runners, I chatted with
a distinguished gentleman sitting in front of me.

“Say, Rich, tell me about your accident.”

I stared at him! How could he know? "The scars! I couldn't help but
notice the little scars on your forehead. You have been in a halo. You
see, I am a surgeon.

Of course, a doctor would notice. "Yes, that's right. It happened
five years ago."